


The Photograph of Rose Lalonde

by MorbidOptimist



Category: Homestuck, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Faustian Bargain, Other, Parody, classic lit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 10:45:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17282597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorbidOptimist/pseuds/MorbidOptimist
Summary: Inspired by the situationally beloved tale of Dorian Grey, this is a story about a photographer, his cousin, and a series of endearingly unfavorable circumstances and stranger truths.





	The Photograph of Rose Lalonde

 Through the open window, the light summer breeze filled the studio with the scent of roses mingling amongst the lilacs in the garden below, and masked the scent of asphalt and exhaust of the city surrounding them. 

 He had far better things to look at then the view from the window however, such as his brother manning his most expensive camera flanked by a small smattering of equipment to either side, and the pallid girl sitting for him in the center of the room. 

 He had been fussing with her and the equipment for several days now, aiming for that ever elusive “perfect shot”.

 A flash filled the room without warning, blinding him; his brother looked from the camera, to the image captured within the tiny screen and a genuine smile graced his lips and lingered there for several moments until he startled himself free from it. 

 Dirk strode over behind his brother and took a gander for himself.

 The image was tiny on the camera of course, but even from such a tiny resolution, the mastery of the piece sparkled like a jewel of aesthetic majesty.  

 “These look like your best yet Dave,” Dirk offered languidly, “You should post it on your blog. The museum is always so full people that you can’t see the sights, and Town Hall is so devoid of people that’s there’s nothing there but the pictures, and I don’t have to tell you how that shit’s infinitely worse.”  

 “Bro, I’m not going to post them anywhere.”

 Dirk’s eyebrows nearly shot themselves past the shades he was wearing and off of his face entirely. 

 “Why ever the fuck not? Do you know how many favorites you’d get on these? Let alone the views? You and I both know that there’s only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about; pictures like these would land you above all the photographers Dave, all of them. You could make it totally happen.”

 Dave began shutting down his equipment; the light had shifted ever so slightly with the movement of the sun, and Dave found himself increasingly more perturbed by it in the passing days of his career. 

 He cocked his head to the side, jabbing it towards the window on the other side of the room. Dirk followed him there, away from the girl who had magically sprung into life and was making her way towards the room’s inner exit.

 “Go ahead and laugh Bro,” Dave replied, when she was gone, “But I can’t post them. Any of them. -Probably not any of them. Maybe one of the first ones. Most of them I guess are fine actually. But not these. Definitely not the last one. It’s too…”

 “...Too?”

 “Personal, I guess. I put too much of me in that one.”

 Dirk laughed, a short brutish chuckling sound, and folded his arms; “Shit bro, I didn’t know you were so vain. There’s absolutely no resemblance between you and her; what with your rugged strong jawline and freckled baby-faced cheeks and shaggy sunbleached locks, and that pallid little Eos with her rosy fingers and sunbright hair. Why, she’s a right Persephone; and you, Lil’bro, well of course you have artistic and intellectual expression and shit. But beauty, real beauty starts where that shit stops. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration; a vain attempt humbleness, vapid and transparent in its very existence, and it destroys the beauty of any face. You sit down to think and suddenly you’re all forehead and horrid and hideous.Thinking is never good for anyone. Not even bishops think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say what he was indoctrinated to recite when he was eight, and as a natural consequence, always looks like an absolutely delightful little shit. Your mysterious little friend, whose name you have never told me by the way, despite you holing up here for god knows how many hours now in her house, whose picture really fascinates me, just saying, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. She’s probably definitely some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when there’s no flowers to look at, and always around in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don't flatter yourself, Dave: you are not like her in the least."

 “Shit Bro, you don’t get it. I wasn’t talking about looking like her. I’d fucking rather kiss a tarantula’s furry anus than look like her. Don’t smirk at me like that you jerkwad, it’s true. Beautiful people and smart people always get the shitty end of the stick of history, like some demented booby trap in the grand pyramid scheme of things. It’s way better to be plain in every way, if you ask me. They get the most out of everything. You can’t know the taste of defeat if you don’t bother trying for the taste of victory. Just slide through life cool and breezy, undisturbed, uninspired, and fucking chill as all get out. Your rank and wealth Bro, my intellect such as it is -my art, I mean, whatever its value is, ironic or not, Rose’s good looks -we’ll all suffer for what fate have so kindly given us, and suffer for it all terribly."

 “Rose? Is that her name?”

 Dave sighed and slicked his hair out of his face.

 “Shit. Yeah, It’s Rose. I wasn’t going to tell you that.”  

 “Why not?”

 “Dunno. Just didn’t want to. I never want to; give out the names of people I start to like I mean. Gives life a little mystery you know? Something magical almost, but less bullshitty. Not much of that goes around these days anymore, especially now that everything’s captured on camera and shit. You probably think it’s lame, but when everything is at your fingertips all the time, the only thing left to do is to hide the tiny ordinary things; even the shittiest things are a bit cooler if you hide them.”  

 “I get it,” Dirk replied somberly, “As a married man I totally get it. I never know where Jake is and he never knows what I’m doing, and when we meet up, which we do sometimes I assure you, we tell each other the most delightful absurd stories; he’s far better at it than I, and sometimes I’d wish he’d make a row at me whenever he catches me slipping up, but all he does is laugh and say made up old timey words that nobody uses and nare dare remembers anymore aside from himself.”  

 “You shouldn't talk about it like that. You always try to make it sound like you hate being married, but you’re a fucking partner and a half. I bet you’re the best at husbanding and you just don’t want to admit it. I’ve seen the blue ladies he’s always got hanging round, but I’ve never seen you so much as  _ sniff _ in either direction since you’ve gotten hitched. Your cynicism then,  _ Lord _ , is as much of a lie as the cake.” 

 “Being alive is a lie,” Dirk countered evenly, before his facade broke; he and Dave smiled for a moment before Dirk checked his watch.

 “I’ve gotta run here in a few minutes Lil’Man, but before I go, I want you to answer my question.”

 “Which question?”

 “The question of why you won’t show off your pictures of Rose to anyone. I want a real answer.” 

 “Dude, I already told you. It’s not my fault if you don’t believe me.”

 “Your excuse of an answer was bullshit and you know it.”

 “Bro, everything an artist does, they put a piece of themselves in. Every painting, sculpture, sketch, it’s all a diary entry of the artist, not the subject. The subject is like the accident, the remnants of the street party you stumble across at three AM in Gotham City in the pouring rain when you’re lost and you hear footsteps behind you, or sunny walk through a Metropolis garden and getting shat on by a golden pigeon. I can’t show anyone that last picture because it’s got a piece of my soul, and I have to keep that shit under wraps; I don’t want anyone finding those juicy soul secrets about myself if I can help it.”

 “She paid you not to show them off didn’t she.”

 “Actually her mother offered to fund me for life if I posted one that went viral.”

 “So what sweet soul secrets are keeping you from becoming a made man?”

 “I’ll tell you if you promise to shut up about it for the rest of forever.”

 “Deal.”

 “You aren't going to believe me, you know.”

 “I’ll believe anything factual or statistically improbable. Try me.” 

 Dave sighed and rubbed the back of his neck and muttered an inelegant obscenity; Dirk found himself thumbing the stubble along his chin as he waited.

 “So it all began at the Christmas party.”

 “Of course it did,” Dirk interjected.

 “Shut up or I won't tell you. Anyway, so I was at the party, being one chill dude, in a real tie and everything, brushing up on my civilized manners and all that jazz, and about ten minutes into talking with the fuddies and stealing all the little shrimp thingies on the platters, you know the ones, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and I swear to god an actual chill ran down my spine. I knew I was being watched. Like sometimes you’re in the shower or whatever and you’re like, oh man, boy would it suck if someone was watching me right now, or you’re tryin to sit down in the metro and everyone is staring at you but not really, you’re just blocking the goddamn metro map like an absolute asshole. Yeah, well, this wasn't like that. Not at all.”

 “What did you do?”

 “I fucking turned around is what I did. Biggest goddamn mistake of my life most likely,” Dave replied bitterly, “But that’s when I saw her for the first time. Rose. It was like everything in my body stopped working, and like, I don’t know how to explain it other than to say, when I looked at her looking at me, that way that she was, I just knew that she had the kind of personality that you can’t escape from. It would just consume me, my art, my life. You see stories and movies about girls who play in traffic and girls who inspire sonnets and lovesongs and girls who incite suicide pacts, but never have I seen anything like her in the flesh. Not gonna lie, it was kind of fascinating in the way car wrecks and animal documentaries are fascinating. That’s what scared me. I tried to get the hell out of there. I made it all the way to the door when Lady Lalonde herself stopped me. Apparently, Rose is her kid and my cousin. And she wanted very much for me to meet her. And well, you know how hard it is to say no to Aunt Roxy.”

 “Impossible.”

 “Exactly;” Dave nodded, “So then I was face to face with Rose like it had been inevitable all along. Aunt Roxy prattled on and on about I don’t even remember what, and Rose just stood there quietly, smiling, but her eyes, they were bored and amused and they sparkled with mischief and then she winked at me and I swear it was like we were BFFs then and there.” 

 “You say that like that’s a good thing.”

 “Oh stuff it up your ass.”

 Dirk shrugged. 

 “Tell me Dave, how often have you been visiting Rose?”

 “I only get to see her every few days, but we text all the time when we don’t. It’s nice.”

 “You crushing on her?”

 “Dude we’re related. Don’t get gross.”

 “You wanna date her?”

 “Dude, she’s gay.”

 “You wanna hold her hand tenderly and talk sweet nothing into her ears while you take up the role of her beard?”

 “We’re just friends. Fuck off.”

 “Friends don’t spend three weeks capturing them on dozens of pictures that they won't even put on the internet Dave.”

 “You wouldn’t know what friendship was if it bit you in the face.”

 “Lies and slander! I’m friends with everyone.”

 “If by friends, you mean that you’re an indifferent asshat to everyone, then yeah.” 

 “False. I have friends. Enemies too; I pick my friends for their looks, acquaintances for their good morals and hardy ethics, and my enemies for their intellect.” 

 “You say that like any of that was a good thing.”

 “You’ll understand someday, when you get a nemesis of your very own. It’s quite ego boosting.”

 “The last thing you need is an ego boost.”

 “Still, I’m glad you’ve found something other than your camera to talk to for once.”

 “Me too. She’s good for me I think.” 

 “How so?”

 “It’s like, now that I’ve met her, I see things differently. I can’t explain it well, but even if I’m just testing her while I’m working, everything I make becomes better that it would have been otherwise. I fucking did a landscape shot, a real one, for a client. No irony at all. Just some oldschool woodland whimsy; and you know what? I fucking nailed that shit tighter than a hammer. And it was because I remembered something Rose had said earlier, and it was like I could just fucking see all that whimsy lying around everywhere all over the place, just ripe for me to get my groove on over. And it keeps happening.”   

 “I want to talk to her. Introduce us.”

 “Dude… Just because I like her doesn’t mean you will. She’s like an imprint on a film reel or an afterimage maybe; she’s strange even for me. You might not like her at all.”

 “You won’t show her pictures.”

 “I’ll show all of them but the last one, there, will that shut you up about it now?” 

 “Why not the last one?”

 “For the last time, it’s got too much of my soul juice in it. The sweet sugary soul juice. And she doesn’t know how much she’s affected me. I can’t let her know, she’d never let me live it down. And I can’t let anyone else see it either, they can’t know that much about me.”

 "I think you’re being paranoid Dave, but I won't argue with you. It’s only the intellectually lost who argue. Tell me, is Rose Lalonde very fond of you?"

 Dave considered the question for for a few moments. 

 "She likes me I think," he answered after a pause; then, with more confidence, "I know she likes me. I flatter her of course. Ruffle her feathers. Rile her up too. She gives as good as she gets turns out. And like, I have this weird habit of saying things to her that I know I’ll regret, and like, I enjoy doing that? For the most part, she’s nice to me. Kinda charming even, I guess. When I visit, we sit around and talk about anything and she listens to all my raps and tells me about wizards and cats and knitting and stuff. Sometimes she gets this weird vicious streak, and it's almost like she enjoys saying things to spite me. Makes me feel like I made a faustian bargain to someone who sees my soul like it was a little flower to stick into their lapel; just a little trinket that’ll wither and fade away without any real meaning or focus to her.”

 “So she’s mean to you?”

 “Only a little. And not often. She says it’s a leftover thing from her and her mom, and that she’s working on it. She gets all sad after, and apologizes and stuff, and she knit me a sweater Dirk. A real honest to god hand knit sweater, with a dickbutt on the front, and notarized apology note stapled to the back. I’d say I was in love but I don’t love her. I don’t know what this is but it’s intense and I don’t know if it’s a good idea or not.”   

 “Sounds like love to me; maybe an aesthetic and intellectual based romance, since it sounds revolved around your photography and all. I wouldn’t worry too much about it; one day you’ll look at her and you won’t like the pigment of her skin or the shade of her hair or something asinine like that, and you’ll think to yourself that she’s betrayed you somehow, and you’ll push her away like you used to do to everyone else, and it’ll change you. You’ll be cold and indifferent, and you’ll stop taking her calls. Then you’ll stop thinking about her entirely. Quite a pity how romance always leaves its participants unromantic.” 

 “I don’t think I agree with a single thing you've said there, but just the same I don’t want you to meet her.”

 “Why the fuck not?”

 “You’ll be a bad influence on her, I know you will. There’s at the very least one entire metric fuckton of other people in this world, so do me a favor and go corrupt one of  _ them _ instead. I need her Dirk, my art, my mind, my everything,  _ needs _ her. Don’t ruin this for me. Don’t ruin Rose.” 

 He stared at him through his shades, his brows furrowed, his fists clenched, and for a moment Dirk wondered if his brother meant to strife with him, in some ancient right of conquest over his new muse of fancy. 

 The thick tension between them was cut short however, when harmonious notes of a violin melted through the air; Dirk smiled as Dave turned pale.

 “If you won’t introduce me Lil’Man, I’m going to introduce myself. I didn’t drive out all this way just to take in the wallpaper.”

 “Fuck. Fine, follow me. Just please, for once in your life, just this once, don’t do what I know you’re absolutely going to do.”

 “Oh ye of such little faith; lead the way,” Dirk replied, a grin marring his face.

 Dave sighed and led his brother further into the house. 

 


End file.
